Only You
by LastWaltzing
Summary: AU! In a world where the hunters are the hunted, Sherlock must be prepared. A single mistake has led the man to the mysterious crew of the 'Great Game'; a circus famed for its wonderous acrobats. Will he be able to be able to trust this 'John Watson? With his life, then again with his heart ?
1. Darker side of the Moon

Only You

A/N: I finally got this typed out! First story with a Johnlock AU! I must be going mad. Chapter 1 should be up within the next few days or so. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcomed greatly. I do hope you will enjoy :)  
Prologue: Darker side of the Moon

It was the only way they could ever survive those dark times. The world's economy was left in shambles after the Great War, leaving many of them exposed and hunted down. They were simply persecuted because they were different, an abnormality that remained as the society's outcast. As a result, they were subjected to the whims of those who discover of their identity. Many became slaves, laborers and even prostitutes; as a last resort to save their own hide from the majority that openly discriminated them. 'Beasts, Freaks,' were the milder terms that frequented the once proud race. Half human, half beast; the Asrian were accepted by neither of their ancestry due to their impure blood.

Asrians came to be thought as one 'borne of hatred and lust', a punishment for the defeated Belsi demons that donned the appearance of animals on earth. It was a battle that the humans had to emerge victorious lest being reduced to the same treatment that their distant cousins were suffering. After nearly a century of bloodshed and casualties, the humans eventually managed to banish the demons back to their domain with the aid of the half-bloods. The Belsi still plagued Earth, leaving disappearing children if one was not careful. Yet, it was the Asrians that received the bitter end; having to have outlived their usefulness after the Great War. Humans were fearful; their population reduced to about one-third before the conflict occurred. With no other means to vent their rage upon, they turned upon the Asrians for sharing blood with their nemesis.

Sherlock Holmes was one of the lucky ones, escaping the harsh, inhumane treatment that many of his kind were forced into. Whilst many of the Asrian were starved and denied even the most basic rights, he had sufficient of Belsi blood in him to remain in control. Sherlock took up simple manual jobs that allowed him to escape when necessary, while balancing the essential release of his animalistic half every time the moon disappeared into the dark skies. He was always careful, coupled with knowledge of a genius; Sherlock had managed to survive along with his other sibling Mycroft Holmes while their parents perished in the biased world. His instincts had served him well for the past twenty-five cycles of the four seasons. It had enabled him to escape the Association, a filled stomach at every meal and remained hidden from the public eye.

It was fine; until he was stabbed in the back by an overly-curious employer. Mr. Brooks was a nice man, all amicable and helpful until he accidentally stumbled over the sight of the Mark on Sherlock's back while he was changing into the working attire. It seemed more like a tattoo to untrained eye, yet the silhouette of the host's animals would appear to be moving on close inspection. The Asrian were frequently identified in the same fashion, thus sending Mr. Brooks on a beeline for the nearest Hunter he could find. The shop owner would have claimed to be bewitched by the man's Belsi blood later on, but everyone in the village remained skeptical at the old man's words.

Mr. Brooks' action, however, did force the Asrian to take off once more. The human's call it the 'mad chase', while the Asrian believed it to be the 'last run'. The Hunters are Elite at their occupation. Many did not see the next sunrise; and Sherlock barely managed by with a couple of deep wounds. It had drained the Asrian to be on the run while nursing his bleeding flank, a darken patch on the jet black fur. He was man by day, then animal by night for the stealth that his animal-half provides.

On the brink of new moon, three hard days since the discovery of his identity, Sherlock was at his wit's end. It was rare admission for the Asrian; surprising that of himself. The raven-haired man rarely found himself drove to the corner; Sherlock prided himself with observation skills. It was his ability to deduce danger from the most subtle signs within his environment that kept him alive so far.

'It was a mistake. I merely miscalculated the timing which he returned; a folly I could have avoided if I had the variables,' Sherlock convinced himself despite the apparent shudder that seemed to dominate his body permanently then. The Asrian was exhausted beyond his limits, dehydrated from the constant race with the Hunters; apparent now from the dragging paws prints to an experienced eye. Sherlock was guided purely by his instincts then, up the boulder then down the small, steep cliffs. The man-beast looked up, ears drawn to the peculiar sound that drew clearer as Sherlock approached.

There was a curious mixture of cymbals, trumpets and various drums, along with abrupt crescendos and decrescendos. It draws the Asrian close like a moth to a fire, curious yet wary. Bright colors donned the wide, tent-like structure. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever encountered, the whiskers twitching in quiet excitement to the new puzzle. A quick sniff in the air brought more questioning smells to the crouched feline, the danger previously all forgotten as Sherlock wondered further into the compound.

A dart shot past, narrowly missing the startled beast as rapid rustling soon followed. "Where is that bloody freak? Three days! It has been three bloody days!" Sherlock hurried out from the clearing, making a mad dash for the strange rectangular structure, butting open the door with his head. He had failed to see in that rushed moment that the structure was a caravan, painted with bold letters 'Greatest Game'; a neat plate of gold with the name 'John Hamish Watson' engraved on it. More so, the Asrian missed the fact that the door was, infact, slightly ajar upon his entrance. Most importantly, he has completely dismissed the possibility that the occupant might actually be present.

Sherlock Holmes has never been more wrong in his life.


	2. The First Meeting

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely follows and favs. I apologise for the long wait (or not...), I got dragged into the Torchwood fandom and found myself hopelessly trapped. I simply have to post a fic on that as well , so stay tuned if you are interested :) Okay, enough of my rambling. Read on! This one is in John's POV, so the next will be in Sherlock's :)**

Chapter 1: The First Meeting

It had been a truly busy day for John. That night had been the first show for 'The Great Game', ensuring that all staff within the circus was kept at their feet. Even as the doctor rested, catching a few minutes of much needed rest before going on his rounds for the performers, the intimidating presence of the big top could be felt. The small privilege of a private caravan was simply incomparable to the sheer size of the gargantuan tents, frequently reminding John that he could be replaced as easily for his incompetency.

'So much for personal privacy, human rights and all that fancy jargon,' the doctor thought, allowing a weary sighs to escape as fingers worked efficiently at packing all the essentials for multiple treatments. The bustling, near-frantic state of the circus almost certainly assured the fate of a patient somewhere, be it from a rush of trampling hooves or bitten by some of the oddest yet aggressive creatures on display. It was tiring business, yet nevertheless one that John had managed to cope by so far. The circus had tolerated his limp in return for his medical services, human and animal alike. John was grateful of his meals; much better than the usual mush that remained the staple diet of many, even if it were stale beard and butter on most days. Food was scarce after the Great War, with most struggling to even put food in the table. The circus managed by with food as mostly part of their currency, resorting back to the primitive methods of bartering for daily survival. Only the strongest survived, for which John Watson was likely to starve had he not been employed as the circus' primary doctor and veterinarian.

'If the creatures out there didn't get me first that is.' John grimaced at the thought. The limp; whether the cause being psychosomatic or physical, it would have been sufficient to ensure that he would be eaten at his first sign of weakness. Regardless of the assurance by the new government, John truly believed the Belsi have not been completely eliminated. "They might have lost the war, but that doesn't mean that we have gotten all of them," John muttered aloud, fingering the small pistol he had on stand-by absent-mindedly.

Red eyes, the uncontrollable urge to shift during nights of new moon; these were the first established signs of the Belsi blood. The only effective weapon against the demons was the potent blood of their offspring, the Asrians' blue blood; a single drop being of capable of wiping out battalions of demons. John grimaced at the magnitude, for that means that the Asrians were exploited frequently as a mean to keep the Belsi at bay. 'Locate any Belsi-blood? Collect their blood, it is pure cash,' he repeated the few words he remembered of his father before the older Hunter had passed on.

The process was painful to anyone with strong enough of a heart to witness the process. Multiple cuts were made close to the jugular, sufficient to draw the 'freshest' blood from the Asrians but leaving enough for him or her to live, barely. The draining, as many would address it as, would be repeated every few days, etching almost permanent scars on the Asrians despite the inherited, advanced healing from their Belsi ancestors. The scars were therefore used as a warning sign for the Asrian presence, turned on by their human cousins. Thus, it would explain the alarm John was experiencing upon the presence of one in his room.

Tall, dark hair with the gentlest of curls, the man before him held an imposing aura despite the nearly perfect body. The stark white blouse was ruined by only a single deep, angry red patch that threatened bleed soon enough if anymore stress was added to it. John's breath hitched. Those green-blue orbs, previously alongside with a shade of blood red; the doctor could not quite decide which colour it truly belonged to. 'Only that they are so bloody…mesmerising. Liken to a gorgon's gaze,' John thought. He was then brought out of his musings with a baritone cough; John realized that his mouth was, embarrassingly, wide open. It repeated for a few time, his words could not quite make it out of his lips. For a moment, John could swear that he caught a tinge of amusement dancing in those striking eyes and the most wry of grins twitching upon the corner of his lips. However, it disappeared almost as soon as it came, the moment interrupted by the rapid rapping on the brass plate of his half mould-infested door.

John frowned. 'How rude,' the doctor simply abhorred the blatant disrespect on his doorstep. For a moment, the tall figure was almost forgotten, like a statue blending into the background. The spell was broken when he took a step forward, his right hand reaching forward to grab onto John's left. The moment he opened his mouth, it seemed to be paused in an internal struggle before he finally fell forward. It was an animal that landed into John's arms though, its body utterly relaxed. 'It would also mean that I must support your full weight,' John sighed, lifting the limp body onto his small mattress, shifting it in such a position that it will not add further stress to the wound. With what thin blankets John could provide, he covered his unconscious occupant, ensuring comfort to his utter most ability. 'Panthera pardus; or otherwise known as a black leopard,' the doctor noted duly. 'One of the remaining few solitary, predatory animals in records about Asrians,' another soft sigh escaped the doctor.

The knocks at the door continued, getting louder in volume if possible. "Knock anymore and you can awaken the dead," John hissed in annoyance at the sound, glaring openly at the door. Common sense screamed at John to deny shelter to the unknown stranger. Yet, the doctor in him refused to deny the medical care to the vulnerable creature before him, regardless how dangerous the task may seem. 'I would be damned if I ever act like the others.' One man in particular, the Ringmaster, came into John's mind then. 'No. I will not be like him.' With a newfound resolution, despite being quite clear of what a mess he would be about to create, or have created, the doctor opened the door with a forced smile.

"Yes? What can I help you with? I apologise I can't offer you tea, expensive after the War and all that," John quipped, though it bore no sincerity in his apology. He stood by the door, firmly grasping onto it and blocking any further entry or insight into his caravan without moving the owner itself.

"Dr. Watson," acknowledged a pair of well-dressed man, if not attired nearly entirely in black. Black slacks, black jackets coupled with an immaculate white blouse; the image projected was all of profession, ruthlessness. 'If the guns didn't mean anything first that is.' John shook the taller man's hand, exacting an equally strong grip. 'Two can play at this game,' John mused.

"We suspect an Asrian is on loose within the premises of this circus. The last reported sighting is outside of your caravan. It would be good if you can provide any information on it. The creature is confirmed to be a black leopard. A level three threat. Thus…," the taller blond left the question hanging, his voice dipping towards the end with a seemingly foreign accent. His partner merely fingered his gun, as though ready to eliminate the threat on the spot were it to appear.

'Level three? You must have caused quite a bit of trouble back there.' The doctor frowned for a moment, schooling his features to be deep in thought before giving a quick, prompt shake of his head. "I would have remembered if I did. No wandering black leopards here and, now if you excuse me, I still have a long day ahead. I would like some rest. Privately," John explained, if not with much exasperation. The pair seemed to be some contemplation for a bit, before abiding to John's wishes after a polite word of thanks. 'No doubt this won't be the last I see of them.' He closed the door, taking care not to do it in haste lest drawing suspicion from the departing pair of Hunters.

With the distraction gone, John quickly turned his attention back to the slumbering feline. The doctor in him kicked in, sending him into a deep calm while deft fingers worked swiftly at cleaning, then dressing the wound. The dark patch was soon covered by a secured layer of fresh bandage on its - his - flank, moving in rhythm to the deep breathing. As John cleared the bloodied cotton wool, a peculiar urge almost overcame the man as he watched over the sleeping Asrian. 'He seems just like a housecat, if not an extremely large one.' A fond smile came onto the doctor's face as he settled by the edge of the lumpy mattress.

'I wonder how it feels like…'

Just as John's hand stroked the muzzle, relishing the soft, velvety fur beneath, his eyes shot open.


End file.
